Sister Rosa’s Rebellion
The Sixth Meonbridge Chronicle
Carolyn Hughes
How can you rescue what you hold most dear, when to do so you must break your vows?
1363. When Mother Angelica, the old prioress at Northwick Priory, dies, many of the nuns presume Sister Rosa – formerly Johanna de Bohun, of Meonbridge – will take her place. But Sister Evangelina, Angelica’s niece, believes the position is hers by right, and one way or another she will ensure it is.
Rosa stands aside to avoid unseemly conflict, but is devastated when she sees how the new prioress is changing Northwick: from a place of humility and peace to one of indulgence and amusement, if only for the prioress and her favoured few. Rosa is terrified her beloved priory will be brought to ruin under Evangelina’s profligate and rapacious rule, but her vows of obedience make it impossible to rebel.
Meanwhile, in Meonbridge, John atte Wode, the bailiff, is also distraught by the happenings at Northwick. After years of advising the former prioress and Rosa on the management of their estates, Evangelina dismissed him, banning him from visiting Northwick again.
Yet, only months ago, he met Anabella, a young widow who fled to Northwick to escape her in-laws’ demands and threats, but is a reluctant novice nun. The attraction between John and Anabella was immediate and he hoped to encourage her to give up the priory and become his wife. But how can he possibly do that now?
Can John rescue his beloved Anabella from a future he is certain she no longer wants? And can Rosa overcome her scruples, rebel against Evangelina’s hateful regime, and return Northwick to the haven it once was?
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Please enjoy an excerpt from Chapter 1 of Sister Rosa’s Rebellion
The day of Mother Angelica’s funeral dawned bright, and quite clement for mid-September. As her dear body, shrouded in white linen, was borne on a makeshift bier the short distance from her chamber to the chapel, the sun climbed into the sky. It cast its warming rays upon the Reverend Mother’s final journey on this earth, as if in welcome to the radiance of the Paradise that awaited her.
It shone too on the line of dark-clad women who followed behind the bier, treading softly and murmuring prayers of thanksgiving for the life of their beloved prioress. Despite their grief and sadness at her passing, the sun’s warmth and glow upraised their spirits, as they thought of the joy that would so soon be hers.
Sister Evangelina walked immediately behind the bier, seemingly untouched by any hint of warmth or joy. Her shoulders shook visibly and she made no effort to moderate the clamour of her grieving. Rosa was a step or two in Evangelina’s wake, alongside Amata, with Beatrice just behind them. Amata lightly touched Rosa’s arm, and Rosa turned to see her lifting her chin towards the back of Evangelina’s wimple and habit.
‘Somewhat excessive in her anguish, don’t you think?’ she whispered.
Rosa gave her a little grin. ‘And not genuinely heartfelt?’ she said, then felt her cheeks flush. How heartless of her to doubt the sincerity of anyone else’s feelings, even Evangelina’s.
But Amata rolled her eyes, then returned to reciting the prayer.
Nonetheless, Rosa wished she had not said it. Today of all days was not one for abstaining from compassion.
The bier, borne by the four youngest sisters, entered the chapel, and the procession of the other nuns followed on, shuffling inside, out of the warmth of the early autumn day and into the chill and dimness of the little church. As they approached the apse, Rosa watched the young nuns carefully lift the prioress’s body – it must have weighed no more than that of a child – off the bier and lower it into the coffin, standing empty on a pedestal, candles at its head and foot. It was, Rosa could see, a fine oaken casket, much grander than Angelica would have wanted. Nudging Amata gently, she pointed to it.
Amata pursed her lips in evident disapproval. ‘The Godeffroys, I presume,’ she whispered.
Father Edgar stood to one side of the altar, another, much older, priest standing in Edgar’s usual place in the centre of the little apse. Rosa had heard that the other priest came from Angelica’s home parish, somewhere close to Southampton. Apparently, some members of her secular family had come with him, and Rosa noticed a rather elegant elderly matron beckon Evangelina to stand with her. Her mother? Angelica’s sister? She murmured the question in Amata’s ear.
‘Oh, no. Angelica’s sister died some years ago, despite being much younger than the Reverend Mother. I do not know who that lady is…’
She could say no more, as the elderly priest raised his hands and began to recite the funeral mass.
Carolyn Hughes has lived much of her life in Hampshire. With a first degree in Classics and English, she started working life as a computer programmer, then a very new profession. But it was technical authoring that later proved her vocation, word-smithing for many different clients, including banks, an international hotel group and medical instruments manufacturers.
Although she wrote creatively on and off for most of her adult life, it was not until her children flew the nest that writing historical fiction took centre stage. But why historical fiction? Serendipity!
Seeking inspiration for what to write for her Creative Writing Masters, she discovered the handwritten draft, begun in her twenties, of a novel, set in 14th century rural England… Intrigued by the period and setting, she realised that, by writing a novel set in the period, she could learn more about the medieval past and interpret it, which seemed like a thrilling thing to do. A few days later, the first Meonbridge Chronicle, Fortune’s Wheel, was under way.
Seven published books later (with more to come), Carolyn does now think of herself as an Historical Novelist. And she wouldn’t have it any other way…
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